


Flawed Concept

by Hashilavalamp



Series: We reap what we sow [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Illustrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7352989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hashilavalamp/pseuds/Hashilavalamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He yearns for a family so Russia builds himself one, though he wonders about the nature of the concept. He asks Germany, and he asks Prussia, and no matter how many times he hears it, it does not make sense to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flawed Concept

**?? ??? 1944?**

  
The cold wind nips and pricks at Ivan’s sensitive skin even though winter has not yet descended on them. Or at least he doesn’t think it has. Difficult to keep track of such trivial things these days when he already knows that General Winter will side with him one more time. Berlin is only months away. 

For a long while his company is just the rattling of the train, scraping of wheels on rail tracks, the groaning and hissing of the ill-constructed vehicle that is used to transporting cattle, and in between always his own wheezing breaths. With such a comforting and steady background noise it’s no wonder his eyelids keep gliding shut, but whenever that falling sensation of sleep overcomes him he stubbornly jerks himself awake; sleep can wait until he has brought his cargo to its destination. He hums songs of victory to himself to keep himself entertained in this metal trap.

His lips crack when he smiles at the sound of a drawn-out moan of pain. He had already feared Germany wouldn’t open his eyes again, not ever again or at least not until the train stopped. The slow dawning of terror on his face as he finds himself among the common scum would be an interesting sight, but Ivan wouldn’t want him to miss out on part of the experience. Germany had always liked trains, right?

“Welcome back, Germany.”

Blue eyes crack open, unseeing and glossed over while the man coughs out some of the blood that still clogs his lungs. Perched upon an empty crate, Ivan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and tilting his head to the side as he props up his chin on one of his hands; he watches Germany acclimate slowly to the sensation of being alive, he has inifinite patience waiting for him to return to the world of the living proper.   
It’s such an interesting process to view, really. Damn satisfying too, to observe the flinches of agony flit across that face, those little twitches of a body protesting against the abuse it endured. (But unaware of what is yet to come.)

“Where are you taking me, Russia?” Germany eventually croaks, voice raspy from disuse and speech slurred by the fog of death. The empty look in his eyes tells Ivan that he already knows where they are heading, but still Ivan says “Nowhere you won’t like it.”

The wet coughing noise is what Ivan figures is the closest thing to a laugh Germany can manage right now.   
For a split second it seems so casual; two old comrades sitting together, joking good-naturedly about the horrors witnessed, gallow’s humor easing the pains –

but they are comrades no more, _in their hearts they never were_ , and Ivan thinks of the scorched earth and his burned flesh, of the massacres and the maddening hunger gnawing at him, all and everything dealt by German hands, and he really needs to stop thinking about it or he will see nothing but his plundered and destroyed cities and villages, and then he cannot guarantee he will allow Germany to pollute the air with another single malodorous breath.

“You will feel right at home, I promise. You will just be on the other side of the fence once” Ivan says cheerfully thus, swallowing back the acid for when he will march on enemy soil. Then Germany will learn what his wrath truly feels like.  
Germany closes his eyes as if overcome with a wave of physical pain at these words, his breath coming in short pants as he strains his upper body in an effort to sit up straighter against the wall of the train. Tough luck with broken legs that won’t heal, but it’s fascinating to watch in the very same way watching a bug is when it is turned onto its back and kicks its little legs and you know it won’t succeed. (And then you crush it, and the stain it leaves behind is curious too.)

“ _G_ _lavnoye upravleniye lagerey_ it was, right” Germany says as if inquiring about the weather, with some effort raising a trembling and blood-crusted hand to his face to chew on it absently. “All the same, we are. It’s everywhere, everywhere.”

A white-hot flash of rage surges through Ivan’s veins and the smile he wears freezes – he is. 

he is not like him.   
He’s seen the extermination camps in Poland, he has bled and starved with his people, had thrown himself back into the lines as a shield of flesh and bone. All to keep the enemy away from his heart Moscow, far away out of love. His camps serve a purpose beyond lethargic pleasure in others’ suffering.  
Ivan had picked up the broken ones Germany had first subjugated and used and then discarded; Ivan had brought them all into Russia’s embrace. There is poor broken Erszébet, Feliks, even fickle Irina, all of them are welcome and beloved in his family, because his family knows forgiveness.   
Once upon a time there had been a place carved out for Ludwig and his brother too, and they had thanked him with firearms and a bullet to the chest.

How could they be the same?

So he replies “Hardly, Germany. I know you wish for it, but we could not ever stoop that low” and Ludwig has the decency left to flinch at the phrasing.   
“We share orders though. Get rid of the parasites of the society. Kill yourself rather than let yourself be captured, so make sure there’s always at least one bullet left for yourself. Run, and your comrades are obligated to remove you. We both wait for a new human to emerge somewhere along the path” Germany mumbles dejectedly, as if he were trying to console himself with a last hope that somebody on this earth is just as repugnant as he is. But he has fallen so deep that nobody can measure up to his atrocities. Ivan does not need to say it, that all these are evils Germany forced upon him. That Ivan is not Stalin, that he has a mind beyond orders.   
(Bloody purges and famine and shooting him because you think you own him does not gain you Ivan’s love. He’s too old to fall for it so easily he thinks (but he isn’t); the resentment is alive and the wounds in his flesh still ache, it is just buried under crushing hatred for other men and all that misplaced love.)  

“Why aren’t you killing me” Ludwig says tonelessly into the silence that stretches between them, the only emotional inflection a hiss of complaint when he puts pressure on his left arm. Ivan raises his eyebrows in mild surprise; “Why, are you giving up?”   
Germany opens his eyes again, gaze piercing through the hull of the wagon up to the heavens in what can only be assumed to be a silent prayer. His lips form a bitter smile when he stops biting into his own hand for the moment. “I can’t can’t give up ever I’ve made my decision. The only thing that can stop me from going out there again and again and _again_ is death, as soon as my legs can carry me again I will try to kill you, because that is what the law dictates.”

Ivan pauses, drumming his fingers on the skin of his face; his senses are so dulled that he doesn’t even feel the pain when he touches an open wound. “My, what a twist! Are you asking me to kill you?”

“I don’t know” Ludwig says and his head lolls to the side to his shoulder, sounding somewhere between misery and death. He’s half-way there at least. “I don’t- know. I am so tired. But I can’t exactly stop? Everything is relative and dependent on other factors, one action is support by a previous one, ideologies build up like houses of cards, so. We all folow paths till the bitter end and if I don’t follow mine now on the basis that I know it’s wrong, then why didn’t I disobey earlier, then why am I— it’s too— And I am so _sick_ of it…!”  
A strange strangled sob leaves Germany’s mouth, and in his attempt to properly suffocate the pathetic sound, he bites down on his hand again and.

“Shit. Shit shit shit shit”

 _Gross._ There goes that part of the finger. Grotesque. But then, Ivan has seen people swallow the meat instead of spitting it out again. (And it’s fitting the German word is _Fleisch_ – what a visceral language.)

“Did Prussia flee already I wonder? I did not find him again, but it is not like him to abandon his home. Not like him at all” Ivan inquires without any further regards to this incident, because that is really the only thing he cares about. He doesn’t want to hear these ramblings that sounds nearly human, he wants to know about what Gilbert has been up to.   
Königsberg is burning, and they never made it Moscow.

Ludwig’s face loses the last traces of color and he looks like he’s going to throw up, but he heaves on an empty stomach. “Shot him” is the curt reply. “Shot him because I found out he turned his back on—no. no. he. He must be on the run now.”

Ivan does not respond instantly, and instead mulls over this. 

Shot him.   
Shot his own brother because it is what the order dictates.   
Ivan itches for the details.

“…Ah, but don’t you love your brother?”

“I _do_! but—my mind is… I forget who my friends are now, sometimes.”

Most of the memories Ivan has of the German brothers is of them together, from the beginning to this day, and when on their own then rarely far apart. From the outside looking in, it was something that Ivan admits he was envious of. He had yearned for that too. Even when they had shed every pretense of humanity and dwelled in the pits of hell, they dwelled there together, they remained loyal to one another. (Until they somehow didn’t.)

It doesn’t— make sense, does it? It doesn’t quite make sense.  
Siblinghood is what he had always yearned for in those long and silent winters but even with sisters, what he had really desired was somehow always out of reach. He is finally building his own family from the ashes of Eastern Europe and he’d thought— he would have something like that too. No more of the arguments and the crying, no more of the hidden knives and strikes.   
but obviously all families are flawed.   
Even with brothers like this, force and violence will always factor in for creatures like them, and that is sobering and bone-crushingly disappointing, and he somehow wishes he hadn’t heard and hadn’t asked, but at the same time he knows it absolves him of his guilt. Irina must forgive him now.

It’s a reminder to always be wary, for love is no guarantee for loyalty.

Bittersweet, a loss and a relief at once.  

Ignoring the sudden sting of pain in his limbs, Ivan rises up from his seat and stumbles over to the German, crouching down next to the body very slowly so he won’t fall over as he cradles Ludwig’s face in his hands. He relishes in the brief flash of terror and pain in those blue eyes when he forces him to look him in the face. Soothingly he brushes his thumbs over the dried blood and the bruised skin. The gentle gesture is one last token of the camaraderie they had once nearly shared before the inevitable is upon them; the screams of his people ringing in his ears tell him to treat this person with nothing but utter disgust and brutality; he will not deny them much longer. He just wants a memento of friendship’s warmth.

“To answer your question: I will simply not let you die a martyr. It wouldn’t be fair, yes? If you drifted away into oblivion and us others were left with the destruction you’ve wrought, that is not justice. You don’t get to kick off a war and not carry its weight! You have to walk to the bitter end of the path. It’s all an eye for an eye. _That_ is fair.”   
Ludwig’s eyes cast a glance to the side as his eyelids flutter shut, so Ivan digs his fingers into the sensitive skin until the blue snaps back to him, turmoil and fever reflected in those eyes. The fire isn’t stamped out yet.   
“I understand” the Germany says, and swallows.

“What are you feeling right now?” Ivan asks with a smile after a while, sitting next to Germany now, long legs stretched out and an arm around his enemy.

“Shame. Because I shot my own brother and still I resent him for what he’s done and. Because I— because of every— I’m sca—…I am so tired. Just tired. That’s all that I feel.”

He cannot even say it.

“I will do you a favor then. I will help you sleep. You won’t have to see anything of my vengeance. You will feel it certainly! But aren’t you glad you won’t have too see? And after some sleep you will be well-rested for work” Ivan says, pats Ludwig’s cheeks once and then he pushes himself up again, and Ludwig watches with resigned despair as Ivan picks up the heavy metal pipe he left next to his crate. He knows what is to come and for just one short second, that split second, something akin to sympathy constricts Ivan’s chest.

“Gute Nacht, Ludwig.”

Berlin is only months away, and the taste of revenge is already on Ivan’s tongue; he will deliver his people the retribution they seek and he will pursue it with every fiber of his being. An eye for a damn eye. He hears noise of tanks in death’s cauldron, tastes the repulsive smell of burning flesh and millions dead. All because somebody thought they are somehow less. Disposable. 

All because Germany is a child.

The burning rage and blinding pain that slumbered for the few minutes of their interactions resurface with new intensity, flooding his system until Ivan forgets himself in the swirl of hurt and cuts.

He raises the pipe high over his head, his arms straining under its weight because of his malnourishment, and then without hesitation he smashes it down on Ludwig’s skull, not even wincing at the squelching sound.

Blood splatters his face and his clothes, red as his army, red as Germany will soon be.

“Sleep well.”

.

.

.

**July, 1948**

“Did you want to starve him?”

Ivan tears his eyes away from the sight of the planes overhead to spare his companion a side-glance, face marred with a frown at the accusation. 

“What, no no… What would that be for? I’ve told you, no more hard feelings! I said, ‘an eye for an eye’, and that is what I got. I am no longer interested in punishing either of you” he responds lightly, and so maybe it’s not entirely truthful but it’s close enough. This blockade is truly not aimed at the Germans; they are just the chessboard pieces to be moved around because he doesn’t need to care about their lives. (And he doesn’t like inflicting hunger anymore, anyway. His own stomach growls still.)

Gilbert simply scoffs and kicks at a pebble with his good leg, leaning heavily on his walking cane. “I’ve got very little reason to believe that, Russia.”

“Please Gilbert, do call me Ivan again? It’s beeen a year now, and I keep telling you it’s fine because we’re partners, not enemies what use if formality then? I’m trying to help you, am I not?” the Russian chides and takes a step closer, placing his hand on Gilbert’s bony shoulder – not the left one because that one is still healing. Ivan would say he overdid it, but then, 25 million are 25 million and someone’s gotta pay for that.   
He feels Gilbert tremble with the effort to contain venomous words at the touch, but he does not pull away.

“Great fucking help you are” Gilbert sneers eventually. “I am sure the people of Berlin appreciate it. East Germany will revere you.” And Ivan laughs at the biting contempt in these words, because he honestly cannot make sense of this man. Not in any way. And it’s what makes him so fun to have around! But also frustrating.   
Under strict rules and stiff uniforms always beat an impulsive and fierce heart and Ivan would have hated to see its flames extinguished by the dust of the war settling and smothering the last fight left in him. It’s just that hearts like that are so difficult to control.

“What now! Alfred starts these things and we cannot allow to leave those things without some form of reprimand. It’s therefore his fault, not mine. If not for him and his meddling, I wouldn’t have come here. We would all already be gone, cozy at home, and you and Ludwig could pick up your pieces together. But…” Ivan trails off and smiles broadly, patting the shoulder he’s put his hand on. “I did not get the impression that this is really what you want anyway.”

Gilbert stops his trembling and Ivan hears, almost inaudible, as he sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. The truth is always so hard to swallow when it comes from somebody else.

“You wonder how I would know? I know because I know you. You are a clever man, cleverer than many of the others. I didn’t name cockroaches after you for nothing; you don’t want to die, so you come to me.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s not an accusation, this is just how we are. You’ve watched over your brother for such a long time, but he now he no longer needs you. In fact, you made it all worse and I imagine that hurts. You are not needed there but you know you could find a new place where you can exist. And you seek my help for that.”

“Shut your damn mouth!”

A few people turn their heads at the angry shout, but when they see who it is who causes the ruckus, they quickly avert their eyes and pretend they do not see nor hear. Gilbert’s red eyes are alive with frantic rage and wide with hurt. He pathetically clutches his walking cane to his chest as if that could do him any good.   
Ivan smiles and smiles and it still feels wrong, but it slips into place a little more each time. He ruffles Gilbert’s hair at the risk of getting hit with that cane, and sure enough, the sharp pain of ceramic hitting his head spreads through his skull. Dazed he falls back a heavy step, body protesting.

“It’s okay, Gilbert. There’s a place for you!” Ivan chirps, ignoring the ache with ease and he gives the other a crooked smile, while Gilbert’s face twists into a grimace of disgust.

“My place is with Ludwig. I only came to you because he cannot keep running back and forth between you and Alfred, I am doing this only to help him. Stop talking as if you know anything, Russia” he spits, straightening his back and trying to stand without supporting himself on the cane as if pride makes you forget the pain, and it’s really just curious. “Fuck off.”

The Russian sighs heavily and shakes his head at the denial, but a fond smile still tugs at his lips. “It’s okay, you know. You might never have to see him again. It’s okay that you want to live and it’s okay that you hate him—“

This time the cane hits him right in the nose and Ivan blinks through the pain in surprise, warm blood trickling down his face as Gilbert already hauls back his cane for another swing at him, and before it can connect with bone again, Ivan grabs it and twists it out of his hands. Fear flashes in those red eyes for a moment, but instead of hitting back, Ivan drops the weapon to the ground, wiping away the blood that just keeps on flowing.   
Bothersome.

“It really is okay though. He’s killing you, even if not on purpose.”

“I don’t hate him, you complete fucking idiot! I love my brother!” Gilbert growls like a wounded animal and clutches at his side, eye trained on him like he’s going to kill him for this.

Ivan pauses, still rubbing at his nose and then he sighs again. “But why are you like this then? What _made_ you like this? He shot you, and he’s slowly killing you, and he no longer needs you. He’s pretending he’s over the war and leaves you behind. I don’t understand?”

And for some reason a triumphant grin spreads across the Gilbert’s face against the pain he must be in and he lets out a barking laugh, all frayed around the edges. “Of course you wouldn’t understand! You could never understand family. It’s beyond you.”

The words _sting_.

_Ludwig, who lied broken and half-crazy and suicidal on that train, sobbing because he shot his brother and still claimed he loved him. Gilbert, who stands trembling and in pain before him, screaming because he cut himself off from the brother he claims he loves._

And Ivan really _does_ not understand, any of it. How love can work like that, how can family work like that, just how much anger and resentment and hurt fits in into the cracks and still leave the family whole?  
Ivan is still on the outside looking in.

And Gilbert knows.

So Ivan really does not like the turn this conversation took.

Ivan pouts and crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking up to the sky again at the planes carrying supplies. Really bothersome how each of his actions is countered by more audacity.

“Maybe it is. But not much longer, you know. I have a proper family too now, and I will learn how to be a good brother, and then I will understand.”

Gilbert just laughs, and it’s really irritating that sound, so grating and annoying.

“Maybe you can even teach me, because there’s a place for you with us. We both know what is coming and under these circumstances, you and Ludwig will not be together again for a long time. But there’s always a place for you in my family. We welcome you, and you will live with us, you will stay alive. You’ll be able to apologize to Eliza in person.”

Ivan drops his voice to a whisper once more.

“And I suppose if you really love your brother and he loves you, then this is better than dying anyway, right? Wouldn’t he want you to live?”

Ivan blinks against the sting of the gray skies.

“Your only purpose is left with me.”

From above rain little candies with parachutes.

.

.

.

And Gilbert almost looks happy when they build the wall.

.

.

.

**End of July, 1969**

“Thank you, Lize!”

His smile is not returned with sincerity, and Erszébet merely takes her seat again and holds her glass of juice in her hands instead of drinking. He watches her with half-lidded eyes as he takes a sip from the drink she brought him; she’s always so quiet whenever he comes by to visit these days, so quiet that he misses the days where she would scream and shout and kick at him. 

He’s told Gilbert, and Gilbert called him masochistic, and then Ivan _might have_ bullied him into promising that he’d along when visiting her in the future. Though he doesn’t understand why he had even needed to be so forceful with him when he knows he likes visiting Lize; maybe he was just being bratty.

Ivan huffs at the memory and the sweet juice on his tongue turns sour so he sets down his glass with a clink and leans forward to rest his arms on the table and soak in his surroundings.

Lize has it nice, he notes once more with his gaze resting on the blooming sea of flowers in the tall grass. Her country is doing splendid; flourishing through all the wrong methods but he has to admit he enjoys the results. It’s why he comes here of all places in this summer when his nerves are stretched to their limit. It’s not the sandy beaches in the south but the sun still kisses his skin here. The air still smells of warmth and the familiarity makes his insides twist with love. It’s lovely.   
He absently raises his glass in a toast to their success.

“Why so quiet?” he asks eventually when the silence stretches on; Lize and Gilbert both shoot him a glare, and Ludwig simply shifts uncomfortably in his seat as if he’d rather be somewhere else. What an amusing sight. How many lies must Alfred have fed him, hm? Or is their last personal conversation still so fresh in his mind, are his eyes searching for that pipe, is the guilt still eating him up inside? Ivan hopes so.

“It must have been such an effort to get all the required papers so you could be with us, and now you’re not even making any use of it” Ivan says lightly, and Ludwig shifts again, visibly torn between giving an elaborate sincere answer and an insult, and in the end he holds his tongue completely. Keep silent and you can’t do anything wrong. Better this way, because Ivan and Alfred had all their fingers in Ludwig’s and Gilbert’s application forms’ disappearances.

Erszébet takes a sip from her drink. “It’s no good to treat my guests so rudely, Russia. They’re not here for your entertainment” she remarks loftily, not even looking at him and instead inspecting her nails. Quiet she is, but when she does speak to him it’s at least still with that old charming defiance of 1956 because no amount of blood can make her anything less than a fearless woman, just slightly wiser.

So Ivan simply chuckles and closes his eyes, ignoring the tense atmosphere around him. He does not understand the doom and gloom when they are given days like this, where he can forget about borders and petty revolutions (how _dare_ they—) and moon landings and mutually assured destruction. People really do need to be forced onto the path to happiness sometimes and then they’ve got the gall to be ungrateful! _The things he does for family._

In no mood to pursue conflict further however, Ivan is content to bath in the sun as the other three eventually chat quietly among themselves about trivial things, about what was on TV, about the weather, oh it’s nice that you have your own car now, Gilbert!   
They don’t ask Ludwig about what it’s like in the west, what kind of pretty things he has there, what kind of car he drives, what his politicians are like. Gilbert joking calls him West, and Ludwig shakes with guilt.

Ivan cannot quite put his finger on what exactly it is that causes him a sudden twinge of discomfort.   
A little thorn in his side, the strange taste of an approaching thunderstorm on his tongue.

“Gilbert, may I speak to you for a bit?”

His tone is nothing but polite and friendly, and yet the look Gilbert sends him is wary and for a second it seems he will not move at all from his spot, but then he slowly pushes himself to his feet. With a smile Ivan follows suit and guides his East German brother away from the table, steers him towards the other end of the garden that eventually opens to a large meadow where the grass almost gleams golden in the afternoon sun.

“How are you?”

“What, couldn’t ask me that in front of the others?” the other jeers immediately; Ivan figured the caustic comments would grow on him some day but this much bitterness is just irritating. (Makes him wish he’d gotten Ludwig instead; he’s obedient and spineless and good with paperwork.) “Same as always.”

“Good, that is good! Just wondered. You had me worried, but you really are back to your old self, working hard!” Gilbert just grimaces, glowering with eyes like embers in an unspoken ‘don’t remind me’. Don’t remind him of how he cried in front of the one he denied a human name, cried because he approved of a wall, the last connection cut, and a new beginning always hurts at first.Gilbert should be happy, so few of them ever get the chance at rebirth.

Ivan prods further though, because the sense of danger is not fading, crawling up from his stomach to his lungs, nestling between ribs. “And Ludwig, how is he doing?”

Gilbert shrugs a little too quickly, biting his lip a little too hard. “He seems to be doing fine to me.”

“Yeah, he looks better sober. He’s wearing his hair differently now.”

“I’ve noticed. Probably Alfred’s doing if you ask me. That, or he took my advice to heart.”

Ivan quirks an eyebrow and his mouth forms a little ‘o’ in surprise. “What kind of advice?”

Gilbert waves his hand dismissively, saying it was just something he might have commented negatively on in a little dispute they’ve had years and years ago. It means nothing in the end. There is no reason why Ludwig should remember; the young always forget so much faster.

The alarms begin to ring in some recess of Ivan’s mind, still distant but urgent.

“Have you two reconciled?” Ivan inquiries innocently, and the twitchy smile on Gilbert’s face dies a pitiful death, his body tensing instantly.. He’s trapped, the only thing moving is his pale hair in a chilly breeze.   
There’s a certain satisfaction in this, how you can see the ‘that’s none of your business’ form on his lips but not come across, a cold analytical mind stifling a foolish heart.

It takes a full minute until Gilbert answers, and his tone betrays his reluctance. “We’ve spoken on the first day of the first trial. It cleared some things up.”

(Too late, because the wall already stood.)

A tense second passes by, and then Ivan laughs freely and throws his arm around Gilbert’s shoulder, feeling him wince and twist in his grip in protest.

“I’m happy to hear this! You were always so close, and it was terrible to watch how the lack of closure tortured you… Now you can both move on, yes?” Ivan says merrily, still half-hugging his comrade and anchoring him in place with his body mass as he nods, hesitantly and just once.   
“He has a new scar” Gilbert murmurs after a moment, catching Ivan by surprise and it takes him a moment to recall the stitches that once held Ludwig together. “So I truly stand on my own now. I’ve made it. I’m _alive_.”

“A cause for celebration!” Ivan exclaims, grin widening as his heartbeat slows and the ice of fear in his veins slowly melts back into insignificant little particles. He was afraid that Gilbert would have— and he wouldn’t want to _punish_ him again so _soon_.   
Gilbert doesn’t smile. “You are not on your own though. There is still Lize, and I, and all the others. …The other Baltics look up to you and admire how hard you work, how much you endure. Should you ever struggle, I am sure they would be there for you as well.”

“I mean no offense, but West remains family” Gilbert says dryly, using that nickname again – he can’t let go after all.  
“And that even though you were once a Baltic child” Ivan tuts, and suddenly the other grabs his scarf and pulls at it harshly until Ivan’s next breath comes out strangled and stuttering.

“I’m no Balt! I’m German, not Baltic!” the East German snarls, a shadow of his self in his black uniform and red armband and lecturing about the lesser breeds. The red eyes stare blindly, it makes Ivan wonder what kind of conversations he’s had for him to react like this. His breathing is all but stertorous against the fabric constricting his throat and he counts the seconds it takes for Gilbert to realize his mistake and let go and apologize for his rudeness.

He stumbles back after a full five seconds, covering his mouth as if in horror over his own actions and the red eyes frantically search his face, so Ivan grants him a soft smile showing just a few teeth to many.  

“No need for shame over your roots. You are still Ludwig’s brother” Ivan assures, rubbing his stinging throat exaggeratedly and enjoying the way the once so proud Prussian scrambles away from him at the smallest threatening gesture. “You’re just ours too now.”

Just like earlier, when he had asked about reconciliation and Gilbert avoided saying anything that sounded too much like ‘Let me go back to him, I regret my choice, let me go back’.

“Let’s head back, yes?”

.

.

.

“Leave them alone” Lize tells him as they watch Ludwig and Gilbert climb back into the car they arrived with. “You’re being unnecessarily cruel to them.”

“They carry a conflict on their backs that isn’t even theirs just because of that selfishness of yours and Alfred’s” she says as she puts away the glasses and juice she set out for today. “You’ve got it easy because you are not in the middle of the bombs. You don’t have to go to bed and wonder if tomorrow you will have to kill your brother. You don’t have to risk stepping on landmines to see your family.”

“Stop acting like you own us” she demands, and Ivan covers her mouth with his hand because that talk is boring him and because it’s her who understands nothing.

.

.

.

Little does he know she will be the undoing of his family.

.

.

.

**1989**

He knows ‘the jig is up’ (as Alfred would say) when he spots them together one day, Erszébet and Ludwig, shifty bastards. As soon as he came closer, they had disappeared into the crowd and scattered.

They are planning something.

.

.

.

And then Lize manages to plunge the knife into his back.

“It’s just a picnic, Ivan” she says sweetly on the phone.

Ivan saw Roderich in her embrace on the TV.

She let this happen.

The border is open and behind them, Germans had spilled into Austria as if a dam had broken under relentless assault. In truth one damn traitor had simply opened the gates.   
And she has the audacity to speak to him like this and he doesn’t understand, wasn’t he a kind brother, didn’t she have a good life?

Why are they doing this to him?

Erszébet had only smiled and waved at somebody.

Ivan reviews the video tape she sent him for the hundreth time. His nose is almost pressed against the screen, nausea and alcohol in his belly. With squinted eyes he sees Gilbert sprint across the field and all but tackle his brother waiting on the other side with all the wild abandon of an unsupervised child, and for the first time in decades, he laughs and the sound is genuine and dripping with relief to the last note when it morphs into sobbing as if the wall were already gone.

Suicidal, Gilbert must be suicidal, is all that Ivan can think as he silently witnesses this reunion of brothers, from the outside looking in. Like those family pictures that never included Ivan.

There is no way that old Prussian doesn’t know what the consequences of this will be, there is no way he doesn’t know that if he returns to his brother then— If he breaks down that wall— If he crosses the ravine that divides them…

He will die.

And he _chooses_ death.   
Chooses it all for the damn chance to embrace the brother he raised and the brother who shot him as thanks. 

(Ivan cannot understand because Gilbert never did teach him how that can be reconciled, how that can be made sense of, how it can be forgiven, because they never were family— because Ivan was never a brother, never a _friend_ —)

(Gilbert had played the friend so well those last few years, wiping away Ivan’s bile.)

Well, he can choose all he wants because Ivan will not let this be the end. They are celebrating and smiling smugly now and laughing at his crumbling family, but as his ribcage expands in the heat of rage he vows that this is not the end.

When the enemy last had stood upon his threshold he hadn’t backed down, he had thrown himself into battle over and over and soaked the fields with his own blood, and if he must, he will do it again.

“Shut up, Hungary.”

The wall will not fall and his family will not break.


End file.
